


the sky is grey (i am less cold today)

by rainingvenus



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non Cannon, Author is highly in love with Han Jisung, Character Study, Gen, Songwriter Jisung, and his lyrics, and his mind boggling creative process, author is scared of Han Jisung’s creative abilities, author simply indulges in rainy settings, rainy morning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:00:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25786990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainingvenus/pseuds/rainingvenus
Summary: Some part of him must’ve known it would rain, the part that made him open the window. A thought strikes in the froth that watches him from the top of his cup.He wouldn’t have such a morning if he had chosen to give up.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	the sky is grey (i am less cold today)

**Author's Note:**

> Did i really choose to ignore the storm of stress my life is to delve into the world of character studies? Did i also project 5% of the brain juice i evolved from days (nights) of sitting on my bedroom floor in the air conditioner dissecting every existential crisis i had onto Han Jisung who is frankly not even remotely similar to me as a person? Did i simply do that because im still awestruck by how complimentary he is to me as a person and i still am unable to understand him fully to finish my hyunsung college au because of how mysterious and beautiful and strong he is as a person? Did i also write this to convince myself it’s okay to take a break or to enjoy myself when i work for my passion entirely drawn from the lyrics of Sunshine and Jisung saying he’s someone who can’t take a break so he wishes people who listen to this song learn to take one? Is this also a rant on my newly discovered introvertedness and love for rain and coffee? 
> 
> Yes, to all the above

Jisung likes the silence. He drinks it in and buries further into his blanket, and then he fills it as he wills. Quiet is a canvas; sound is paint. He smiles and hums the melody he fell asleep mumbling, and the realisation that he managed to remember it despite having 8 solid hours of sleep right after creating it makes him lift his head in surprise. He catches his eyes in the round mirror on the wall right across his bed and they gleam. 

He hums till the melody overlaps with a song he has heard before, and his voice fills the room. 

He slides his feet out of bed as fast as he can, because it’s a nice day, the kind of day it’s not hard to exist, the day when your shoulders don’t hurt for no reason and your ribcage isn’t heavy and you are able to think about that friend that left without crying. He sings to himself and decides on a latte, a steaming one for breakfast. His fingers are cold, pale under the tap water as he washes his toothbrush. The melody, he thinks. 

His toothpaste tastes like the melody. 

  
  


He spits into the sink, grinning at himself. 

When he pries open the kitchen window, the same feeling of realisation as when he woke up strikes him. It is raining. He didn’t know it would, but maybe he did when his body didn’t ache on leaving his bed that morning. Some part of him must’ve known it would rain, the part that made him open the window. He lets water drops trail across his hand which sticks out of the frame, and their rhythmic patter intertwines itself with the whirr of his coffee machine. Another nice way to fill the silence. When the machine clicks, he swivels around. A thought strikes in the froth that watches him from the top of his cup.

He wouldn’t have such a morning if he had chosen to give up.

  
  
  


He collects the latte and carries it to the small nook in his apartment. A desk sits snugly in it, music production equipment on either side of it. The screen on it is gleaming pitch black, a thin vine falling over it from the plant that sits on the window sill above it. The plant is his friend Felix’s. Jisung is looking after its delicate moods while Felix travels abroad to feel less suffocated by the city. Jisung doesn’t understand that, but he respects it. He can’t imagine a life outside the skyscrapers and traffic filled roads outside his small dimly lit apartment. He is a cog in it, doing his small small job of pulling out words and making them nice to hear for small people to listen to when they’re tired like he feels when the air conditioner has been running too long and he only realises its been too long when his bones seem to be made of wood and his neck crackles when he moves it. 

The thing with air conditioners is that they are quiet when they run, and so is Jisung when he sits to work, and loneliness and a sad tiredness hit him when he pauses when the sky outside is pitch black and the traffic below his window’s glass isn’t its usual dull hum anymore. He forgets that this long in the music-filled, person and movement-less quiet can exhaust one this much; that it can make the house too cold. 

(create, you can call it, but the capitalist nature his creative process has adapted at this point makes him feel like he’s glorifying what is simply a living. He often questions whether making his passion his work was the right choice, and maybe it is, but he still thinks about it because the fear of losing his passion simply out of the aches work give him won’t leave the back of his mind. Does his mind even have a back? Does anyone’s mind have a back?)

  
  
  
  
  


The first sip of the latte is artful, awakening, spreading warmth through his entire body, seeping to his fingers where he holds the cup. The sky is white above his desk. After a minute of thinking, he pulls this window open as well. The wind is as cool as his air conditioner, but more like meeting a friend than the thought of work. He finds himself not minding its gentle cold. The second sip of latte is even more filling, and he pulls a large hoodie over his head as he takes his seat. 

  
  


The rain patters and the melody in his skull tugs at him to be released. He sings again, keying it into his computer through his piano keyboard, adjusting it, dragging it longer at the end. The rain manages to be a part of it as well, even, unfazed, unwavering to the emotions of his voice and the guitar of the song. 

  
  


It’s ironic. Jisung is still working, working like he always does but today is different. This song is his before it’s anyone else’s. This song is for him, and then maybe a thank you to the inventor of coffee. 

It’s odd as well, that it is supposed to be colder on the days it rains but to him it is warmer. The summer heat made him want to frown. Its loudness always seemed to flush his brain beyond functionality, a frustrating buzz that humidified his small home with something like the announcement of a bad unwanted headache, the **noise** of people saying all the things that didn’t matter, that made ugly unpleasant radio static in his head. 

The rain was humming instead, like his songs, like the peace of his coffee and the thought:that amidst the chaos of life, its storm had an eye, and eye that never ceased to exist in tranquility. Rain was the feeling of a quiet shower after a long day, the embrace of a friend that never left, that would come and check on you every once in a while and feel enough; the steam that rose from your ramen and the way it warmed your gut on a freezing day; the soft-voiced phone call with someone you really liked. Rain wasn’t warm itself, but it brought to him everything that was. 

(is it me, or my window)

(It feels strange to ask

Because my songs were never questions)

  
  


The weather could be perhaps what made all the difference, or maybe it was him. To be honest, Jisung was scared to credit himself for being the one responsible for being in a better mood, for not feeling as dead (defeated? Not really. Tired? Maybe) as every other day. Was a single human’s will strong enough to turn one’s mood around or was that too egoistic of him to assume? 

Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it will matter more on the days he struggles to find a reason to be happy and maybe he’ll regret not getting to the bottom of this question in that dark-filled moment. 

He locks the thought, not at the back of his mind, but in some corner he can reach to later. He has better things to do right now. He has a song to finish before the sky finishes its shower. It doesn’t take any effort to pull the words from out of himself for they waft there already.

  
  


(I am less cold)

(Even if the sky isn't today) 

  
  
  
  


A smile plays on his lips as he slips out his notebook, pencil tip scratching on the yellowed paper’s surface. He brushes his hair from his eyes, and he knows they gleam without a reflection to confirm.

  
  
  
  
  


(I want my bones,

My fingers to thaw)

  
  
  
  


(i want to exist today)

  
  
  
  
  
  


(i want to make sure

It isn’t just another day)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday to maryam, for making me pay more attention to the rain and Jisung and the lyrics of Another Day. I hope your days grow nicer. I hope i can write a song like Jisung can one day.  
> also wrote this right before my wisdom tooth surgery so frankly didnt even proof read once sorry hdhd


End file.
